


Chamomile

by Terinka



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29958588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terinka/pseuds/Terinka
Summary: Well, it’s not like you’re going to lose to anyone. You are brave, strong,  and you know what you want.- - -What you don’t expect is the pale, oval-shaped petal that you find on your tongue.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	Chamomile

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as a bday gift for my dearest friend Iri - I love you, bro <3 This fandom brought us together and it'll forever have a special place in my heart, and I've grown fond of this ship-in-law :D
> 
> Written in second-person PoV for unknown reasons, something possessed me and I don't remember writing this at all :D  
> There is blood mentioned (it's hanahaki, duh) but it's nothing explicit. Just a heads-up if it's not your cup of tea.

You see him for the first time when you’re only 13, and you immediately avert your eyes because the first impulse you have, upon watching his lithe, fairy-like body, is to curse him (and the lead dancer, the coach, the other people around, yourself). 

It’s been only a couple of days but what was supposed to be the training camp that would help you shock the world at your Junior bracket swiftly changed into your personal nightmare, the voice of the coach telling you _You’ll move to the novice class starting tomorrow, be ready at 8._ You felt you were too old, too experienced to be in the novice class but here you are, watching the goddamn _kids_ skating, and you can’t help yourself but feel inevitable pulled towards, drawn to this blond mop of hair and oh god, his eyes, his incredible, vivid, viridian eyes full of determination and resolution - 

You feel an unknown pang of sharp pain somewhere behind your sternum when your eyes meet. 

Well, it’s not like you’re going to lose to anyone. You are brave, strong, and you know what you want.

\---

The camp is almost over and you sigh as you try to count the countless bruises dotting your body. Yellow, green, blue, purple colouring your tanned skin; your tired eyes carefully scanning the mirror reflection, adding more lines to the tally in your mind, until they stop on a peculiar shade of colour you definitely have seen before but not there - a speck of crimson red clinging to the corner of your mouth. You open your mouth to inspect it; a cut? A bite? The training has been so hard that you consider it possible.

What you don’t expect is the pale, oval-shaped petal that you find on your tongue. 

\---

Once the plane takes off, you close your eyes and let out a deep breath. You’re sore and almost everything aches yet you can’t bring yourself to regret a single minute of the camp. Not only have you decided to focus on skating fully, but you have also found the strength needed to tackle the oncoming season - and make the world recognize you. The hours on ice under the eyes of one of the most respected coaches made you stronger; your stamina will skyrocket from now on, making you skate better (longer, _faster_ ) and jump higher. 

(It will take you a while to nail all of them down, making the spins elegant, the jumps immaculate, the landings sharp and the transitions fluid, but you _will_ make it - you just don’t know it yet.) 

These things aren’t the only ones you’re leaving with, though - there is a memory of the boy skating better than anyone else you’ve seen so far, hard eyes locked on the future he wants to own. There are moments you shared with him, even if he didn’t notice, too focused on being grumpy and training more than his peers. There is silent determination you’ve stolen right from those haunting eyes; the desire to skate (with him). 

There is also this odd pressure in your chest - you shoo it away, into the deepest and darkest corner of your mind; it’s only natural after training so much as you’ve done. 

There is also a bunch of crumpled petals; their usual white marred by the droplets of dried blood. 

\---

As the years go by, you’ve grown into your full potential. There have been moments when you felt like giving in and giving up, muscles sore, bones at the verge of breaking (as was your spirit, too, one day after finding not a single petal, but a whole chamomile blossom in your hand, dyed red; the cough made your throat sore as it had never been before). All it usually takes is a memory, the colours somewhat dulled as if you were looking at an old photo, the green eyes outstanding, losing neither the determination, nor the passion they hold so long ago, at the summer training camp. 

You jump countries, rinks, and get to meet other people whose love for skating bleeds onto the ice from every spin, split and jump. They teach you some things you need to know to reach the very top of the world, and they also teach you something about yourself - that there is a compassionate heart under that stoic face; that there are ways to tell stories and confess your emotions without words. Your skating says it all. 

\---

There’s a gold medal around your neck as you regard the ice rink from the podium and your country considers you the hero - in the outfit representing your culture, legends and traditions you can’t help but to smile a little and let yourself feel to be one.

A pretty Japanese girl hands you a small bouquet of flowers and you, quite ironically, suddenly feel more breathless than after finishing your FP. The air itself is heavy and thick on your tongue and you can feel the iron tang of blood. Swallowing the flurry appearing in your throat is _almost_ impossible but you believe that if anyone were to see it, they would assume it was the overwhelming feeling of victory that made your eyes glassy and caused the fit of cough. After all, this is your ticket to the GPF. 

The bouquet is full of dark pink peonies, tied together in a ribbon that is the colour of _his_ eyes. When you’re leaving the podium you hope that nobody will question the dark-flecked petals and one peony without a stem that you’ve left behind. 

\---

There is something both bitter and sweet about the moment you see these expressive eyes again, in that hotel’s lobby. You’re relieved that the spirit is still very much alive, if not more than it was before, and the thought that the time all these years ago made you brave enough to keep going - to lead you to this point warms you. The bitter pill comes in the form of the same pair of eyes that show no recognition and no responsibility for what they’ve ignited. 

You allow yourself a small, private smile in reaction to the growl, and upon leaving the hotel, you secretly cough up a single tulip bud. This is new. 

\---

Not even twenty-four hours later and you curse yourself a little, revving the engine and feeling the arms wrap around you. It’s your first time in this city but you’ve done some research before coming here, and you try to ignore both the warmth seeping into your back through your leather jacket _and_ the growing need to cough when your bike climbs the hill to the colourful gate. The park is most likely to be rather empty at this hour; and you’ve always had a soft spot for watching the ocean from above. 

You’re not surprised when he doesn’t remember you. After all, he’s always been focused on skating, shunning everyone and everything aside. You saw that the first moment your eyes landed on his small form. 

“Yuri Plisetsky had the unforgettable eyes of a soldier.” 

You surely surprise yourself, this time, your thoughts slipping out and spilling in front of the blond boy, unstoppable now once you’ve lifted the dam. You tell him about the summer camp, share some moments from your childhood, your admiration seeping through your words despite your best efforts to reign it in. You think you should stop but you also need more, _greedy_ , and so you extend your hand and together with the offer of your friendship. You can’t resist basking in the warmth of his smile and the sudden liveliness of the handshake, and the soreness in your throat doesn’t seem as bad as it was moments ago. Until - 

“Friends!” He exclaims, and where you expected satisfaction, only something akin to greed lifts its ugly head and clogs your lungs. 

“Let’s grab something to eat and some drinks.” 

\---

The tea helps to calm your throat down a little, the irony of it being a chamomile one not lost on you as you’ve become too accustomed to its taste. You listen to your friend talking animatedly and you don’t want to acknowledge the fond expression you know has taken over your usually stoic face. Why would you? This is something you can allow yourself. Time flies and you break in the monologue with some remarks and questions of your own, efficiently turning it into a dialogue. Everything feels okay until it doesn’t. 

You know both the Japanese Yuuri and his coach, the living legend that Viktor undoubtedly is, are important to Yuri ( _your Yuri_ , your brain, or maybe your heart, the traitor, adds helplessly) despite what the young skater says. That’s why your first reaction is to feel happy for them and clap politely when they - more or less - announce their engagement. 

It’s only after you get lost in your thoughts that the situation goes swiftly downhill for you. You lock eyes with Yuri and despite his face looking like he’s about to throw the dinner you shared up, you can see sparkles of happiness for his friends in his eyes. 

_It’s always the eyes._

The sudden wave of nausea and the sharp pain in your chest reminds you that not everyone is destined to have this...whatever they have. The word _friends_ sounds almost mocking now, ringing in your ears. You feel weak, weaker than you’ve ever been before, all while knowing you can’t afford to falter. Not now, not ever. 

The confrontation with your former rinkmate, the halting reminder of why you all are here, gives you enough space to return to the hotel and lock the door behind you, only barely making it to the bathroom. 

The petals, blossoms, stems and leaves are almost pitch black against the cold, sterile white porcelain of the sink. 

\---

The competition shadows everything else for some time being and is only interrupted (you allow yourself to be interrupted) by the voice ringing through the rink clearly: “Davai!” Your eyes automatically search for the face you’ve come to love, and seeing your _friend_ rooting for you makes your heart flutter. 

( _It also makes the flowers inside flutter but you ignore it. You found your resolution yesterday and you know you need to do this; for yourself, for_ him.)

You respond to him cheering you on with a thumb up and head into the centre of the rink. Once the first tones of your music resonates through the arena, you’re lost to the world. 

Determination mixed with a bit of anger because you think it might not have been enough, _you might not be enough_ , doesn’t leave your face even after your program is over and apparently it makes your friend (the one you actually _can_ call a friend, no strings attached) collapse under the pressure of the event. You feel sorry for him, his panicked expression a reminder of last year’s GPF and the other Yuuri’s story you learnt about only recently. 

You don’t allow your thoughts wander in any direction leading to the blond hair, green eyes and the display of Agape you’ve seen earlier today. You don’t. You can’t. 

_It’s always the eyes._

\---

The day of the free skate is charged with more emotions you can name. Adrenaline, motivation, sorrow, sadness, confusion, determination, courage and bravery are ever-present and you can almost _taste_ them on your tongue. You are confident in your skills and you are more than ready to show them, to show the whole world what really is in you.

There’s also a promise, or maybe a bet you’ve made with yourself, and the stakes are high.

_"Now is the time for you to take center stage. The whole world is waiting for you... Don't forget what it is you want. Now is the time to take off. Fulfill your dream. Only you can make it reality. Live your life. Now is your beginning. Live your own life. Now is your beginning! This is your time!"_

Whether you talk about your free skate, your career or your Yuri, you are not sure yourself.

\---

Seeing your yesterday’s gesture returned back to you makes your heart beat faster and you are unable to tear your eyes off the ice. You’ve already seen one miracle today, as everyone else in this arena, Yuuri breaking the world record his own coach and fiancé set. You don’t want to but you desperately ask for one more anyway. For something to happen, for you still having a chance to reach the top, the podium, to fulfill the promise you gave to yourself, to win the bet - even if you know that any chance of this happening would hurt him, and in the process you, too. 

Your expectations are both met and not. Yuri wins the GPF, delivering truly the best skate you’ve ever seen, and you wouldn’t expect anything less of him. You are genuinely happy for him. You want to be happy for your friends Yuuri and JJ, too, but ultimately (and it’s unfair to see them like this, you know it yet you _can’t stop_ the thought) it’s their victories that stand between you and your place on the podium, your promise and your goal. 

Taking in Yuri’s sour expression despite the gold being placed around his neck, you wonder if he’d smile if you were there, next to him. 

You kick the pair of strikingly viridian morning glories under the bleachers and leave. 

\---

_It’s always the eyes._

You really, _really_ thought it was a good idea. To take your mind off the championship, off the friends turned enemies, off their and your exhaustion and devotion. There’s nothing more calming than submerging yourself into the rhythm of the music in the dark, feeling the beats more than actually hearing them, and it takes you just a few messages to get behind the DJ’s desk in one of Barcelona's clubs. 

Since the entrance is guarded and monitored, you don’t really expect to find him burning holes into your chest, the expressive eyes barely visible behind the sunglasses slipping down his nose, but _uh oh here comes the trouble_ because they shine more than anything currently turned on and flashing in the club, especially after the smirk you’ve aimed at him, knowing better but not listening to the voice of reason, the finger gun, and the impossible, grand requests he makes and you can’t refuse. 

The numbness spreading through your lungs, chest and heart that started when he yelled and told you that you were through is gone in an instant but you’re not sure if you didn’t prefer it to the pain of something fluttering and growing inside you. 

\---

“So? Are you gonna do it or are you not gonna do it?” 

What is one more request, one more demand you can’t turn down even if your breath is getting shorter, every step is increasingly more difficult and you feel like your loss in the GPF didn’t mean only the end of one season, but also of something else? You clench your teeth and chew on the petal threatening to slip out. What’s one more performance? You only have to stand there and do as you both planned last night, hidden in your room till the small hours. 

You push the memory of his warmth, his enthusiasm, his smell that lingered in your room even after he sneaked back to his own place, out of your hand because the last thing you need right now, the song already having started, is another flurry or bloodied flowers. The one from last night was a pain in the ass to hide. 

“We’re friends, aren’t we? Then there’s only one answer.”

\---

_It’s always the eyes._

The finger gun, the taste of leather, of sweat and of _him_ on your tongue. A glimpse of his flexibility, the tank top almost sliding off, sunglasses lost. Your heart beats probably even faster than the beats resonating through the rink and you think that _Welcome to the madness_ is a very fitting name for this… whatever you ( _both_ , you add kind of giddily) have unleashed. 

Your throat feels full again, your lungs sore and small, and you suspect that only a part of this feeling is thanks to your _friend_ out there, skating his soul out. Your vision goes a little cloudy, the rink wobbling, and the air suddenly feels much colder than anything you’ve ever experienced on the ice. The word rings in your ears. 

_Hanahaki._

And just like that, you know you won’t be able to handle it for much longer. 

\---

When you blink, your eyelids are the heaviest thing in the universe and if you can’t even fully open them, how are you supposed to move? It’s much easier to let them close again. 

\---

The warmth radiating from your left side, seeping throughout your bones and muscles, makes you wake up. Opening your eyes feels a bit easier this time, and you manage to turn your head a little - actually, as much as you can, which isn’t much at all. You feel sore and everything is downright _painful_ and you can taste the dried blood on your lips when your tongue slips out of your mouth. 

You realize the only thing that doesn’t hurt are your lungs, and breathing is easier than it was before, and the only thought in your head is that if the disease is gone, you’re gone, too, because you decided a very, _very_ long time ago that under no circumstances would you let it put both your and Yuri’s careers, dreams, lives in risk. 

You have also conveniently ‘forgotten’ the fact that ignoring it, ignoring _your feelings_ will, one day, kill you.

Otabek Altin, a Kazakh skater, one of the best in the world, the Hero, the bravery personified, showered by chamomiles and peonies, their delicate petals bloodstained. 

\---

However, as you find out the second, no, the _third_ time you wake up, today is not your last day, and you might have to wait for that moment for a _bit_ longer. You feel lighter and better, the pain fading slowly, and you feel adventurous enough to actually turn your head towards the source of heat. 

And there, curled into your side, head making your arm go numb, Yuri sleeps. You notice his messy hair, the remnants of his exhibition hairdo barely there. His eyes are red-rimmed and you don’t know it is because he almost cried those gems out, finding you in one of the corridors just outside the rink, collapsed and bloodied and _not breathing_. Trying to sneak the tingling arm away, you start squirming, but a deep voice stops you. 

“Just stay there and relax, Beka. You gave him - and all of us - a shock.”

Your eyes widening in surprise, you turn your head to the opposite side and see Viktor and Yuuri sitting in chairs next to your bed. The latter dead to the world, soundly asleep and drooling a little, glasses askew, while the former, his usually meticulously groomed hair a mess, is carefully watching you with a small smile on his lips, his eyes sober. 

“What...How...how did I get here? What hap -”

You are surprised to hear your own raspy voice, the throat sore and lips dry, but you don’t even get the chance to finish the question. 

“You disappeared after the exhibition and when Yuri went to look for you, he found you on the floor, surrounded by a bunch of bloodied flowers. We managed to take you to the lockers, made sure you were breathing, cleaned you and the place a bit and then took you back to our hotel. Yuuri took care of the flowers so hopefully we - or you - won’t have to explain anything officially. But I think you owe an apology to him.” He nods his head towards the sleeping bundle under your blanket. 

There’s a million thoughts running through your head but one gets particularly stuck. The atmosphere in the room is surprisingly calm and nobody seems to be freaking out about the whole deal. Eventually it slips out of your lips. 

“You… seem okay with _this_.” You wanted to say _not bothered, not disturbed, not panicking._

He watches you for a moment, leaning into the armchair and stretching his long legs. A moment later he looks at the sleeping fresh silver medalist next to him and he smiles, a flash of… fear mixed with nostalgia in his eyes.

“Let’s say it’s not my… our first time dealing with _hanahaki._ ”

The word surprises you and something clicks in. _Maybe the flub at last year’s GFP…_ You can afford to leave this idea half-baked because a voice in your head is telling you that just this once, for the first time since you saw that petal, five years ago, and later learnt about the oddity, things might be alright. 

It takes most of your strength but you smile vaguely in the older skaters’ directions and then carefully shift, pulling Yuri closer to you, his head in that sweet spot, the junction of your neck, and you wrap your arm around his slender shoulders. The content murmur tells you he doesn’t mind, and even unconsciously snuggles closer, your legs twining under the blanket, and you can hear his steady heartbeat echoing through your chest, your own mirroring the quiet _thump - thump_ in perfect synchronization. You can’t resist because you know, deep inside, that you don’t have to anymore - 

You press a warm, silent kiss onto Yuri’s forehead, feel the smooth texture of his long bangs tickle your cheeks, and the last knot in your chest untangles when you spot a satisfied smile taking over Yuri’s sleeping face. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to him. To both of us.”

In a tall, crystal vase on the window sill there are chamomiles, peonies and red daisies.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully you liked it! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated, as well as constructive criticism.


End file.
